Today was a bad day and I’m having a hard time pretending that it wasn’t.<\/p>\n
Everyone seemed much happier and more relaxed once I left the living room and went upstairs.<\/p>\n
I guess the problem was me. It usually is.<\/p>\n
*<\/p>\n
I haven’t been posting a whole lot because I don’t want to bring everybody down. In my depressed moments, there’s a gaping well of blackness inside me, a bottomless drop ready to pull in anyone that’s not ready for it. Then things cycle, and while the complaint still lingers on my lips I’m laughing about something and I forget all the reasons why I was so angry and upset.<\/p>\n
Realizing that you’re spiraling doesn’t help. Especially when everyone around you is picking you apart at every moment.<\/p>\n
It’s exhausting.<\/p>\n
*<\/p>\n
Everybody’s so unhappy. It’s like the house is full of poison.<\/p>\n
No matter what direction I turn, there’s only frowning faces. And being me, I can’t help switching to Appeasement Mode, which means receiving tons of abuse and not having the emotional wherewithal to deal with it.<\/p>\n
There’s a lot of anxiety involved when you’re driven to make unhappy people happy. Especially when they don’t want to be happy.<\/p>\n
Because even knowing that it’s all fake–that none of the anxiety, the dread, or the overwhelming sense of despair are real–they feel real.<\/p>\n
And if you live something deep enough, long enough, doesn’t it become real?<\/p>\n
Maybe I’m projecting my unhappiness to some degree, but not completely. It’s a fact: I am not the only unhappy person in my family.<\/p>\n
I’m just the only one willing to admit it.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"